


All Golden

by tasteofhysteria



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofhysteria/pseuds/tasteofhysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That beloved boy king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Golden

Garðaríki was, in some ways, a comfort to be traveling in. The landscape wasn’t the same as it was at home, but it held the same kind of untamed wildness that Norge could feel at home in (to an extent). He actually wasn’t sure why he was traversing this wide expanse of land, trailing behind Einarr Þambarskelfir and Kalf Arnesson through a wasteland of deadened grass.

Maybe it was simply another example of rebellion against Danmark and his cloying closeness and smothering habits. Maybe he was just bored. When the band tired, they camped on the banks of the Volkhov (or if they were lucky, in one of the fort towns) and Norge slept in his own manner of doing so by staring at the dark skies overhead and wondering. Planning out maps for his future that would never go his way but for wishful thinking, connecting constellations and clusters of stars by giving them names of dynasties past and the ones still unborn, quietly weighing the evil of Svein’s rule against the follies of a boy king.

In the end, nobody would ask him; they would do as they were wont to do and claim it was for his glory. It was said to be an elegant solution, so he tore up handfuls of grass and let the soil slide between his fingers and said nothing, because men were transient and he was forever.

Mornings came and they closed the distance between themselves and their goal with as much haste as they could, mindful of the danger of the open country and robbers. Norge didn’t remember much of the journey, having no landmarks to pass the leagues with. One particularly chill evening when the sun hadn’t quite set and the sky was painted with a muted pink and muddy gray, a child was presented to him.

The boy radiated anxiety in near palpable waves and Norge paused to stare at him, tankard of ale halfway to his lips already. The boy opened his mouth and closed it several times, blinking furiously and flushing red. Someone took pity on the boy and introduced him as Magnús, son of Olaf.

Norge blinked once and inclined his head. The room fell silent, waiting. Norge looked down again at this small boy, barely 11 and all golden, last rays of sunlight burnishing his hair and shining off his pale eyelashes as though he were a statue of precious metal and not a future king.

Norge could feel it then, that he would love this boy above all others and that he would lose him too soon. He lifted the tankard to his lips and took a small sip, unheeding of how the room seemed to sigh with relief.

Yes, he would lose that boy too soon, but that was the way of things for those who did not die.


End file.
